


fatum

by plingo_kat



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Alex fulfills her destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fatum

**i.**

“Gabriel.” Furiad bows, fist over his corporeal heart. “The human is requesting you. Again.”

At first glance Furiad isn’t being any more passive-aggressive than normal when dealing with the Chosen One’s business, but angels aren’t very good at hiding their emotions. It comes from not usually having any, or at least not having a physical body to express them. The stiffness of his posture, the slight bristle of contour feathers along the arch of his wings – Furiad is agitated.

Then again, Furiad is always agitated when it comes to Alex.

It’s because he’s _hashmallim_ , Gabriel thinks as he nods in acknowledgement, rolling off his chair and onto his feet. Angels have a hierarchy. They were each made for a certain purpose; they understand their place. _Hashmallim_ believe in order more than most, perhaps even more than the _seraphim_ , because their purpose is to _enforce_ order among the lower ranks. Only Alex doesn’t fit into any of the angelic hierarchies.

Gabriel is still chuckling when he finds who he’s looking for.

“You called?” He leans one shoulder against the wall and crosses his legs at the ankle.

Blonde hair whips through the air, curls tangled and lightly matted with sweat. Gabriel wrinkles his nose, keeping it that way as he catches sight of blood running down Alex’s cheek.

“I hate it when you sneak up on me.”

She places the dagger carefully back onto the tabletop in front of her, oil on metal reflecting candlelight in dancing flashes. There’s a cleaning cloth already stained with various substances lying crumpled in a heap; she uses it to wipe her fingers.

“You shouldn’t make it so easy, then.” He studies her, the set mouth and suppressed flinches when she moves. “Sparred with Furiad, did you?”

She bares her little white teeth at him. “He’s an asshole, and I’m _bored._ I’ve been stuck in here for weeks, when can we go out again?”

“Michael’s spies are still out in force,” Gabriel points out.

“So take me somewhere remote, I don’t care. Just – if I have one more _malakhim_ decide they want to have sex with me, I’m going to kill them. Or myself.”

Gabriel tilts his head. “I suppose you could be acceptable, in the right light. If I squinted.”

Alex snarls. It reminds him a little of Raphael, which may be why he concedes.

“All right. I’ll take you out for pudding!”

 

To be entirely honest, he didn’t plan to kidnap the Chosen One. It just happened one day – he was out getting rid of some humans, and after he stuck one through the heart the lines and whorls inked into his skin began to fade away. Around the same time, one of the infants began to squall. He watched as patterns etched themselves onto pale, pudgy flesh, each curve and angle smaller and tighter than it had been on the man.

He spared it out of curiosity. He keeps her because she is destined to bring back his Father.

 

Sentiment: always a mistake.

“Brother,” he says. He’s gratified to see that Alex has at least some sense, staying well back behind the cover of his wings. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Give me the Chosen One.” Michael always was a spoilt brat. Glad to see that hasn’t changed.

“Why don’t you go back to the Silver City and sit on a spire?” Gabriel says in Enochian. Only in Enochian, the word isn’t ‘spire’ – it’s more like ‘non-literal uncomfortable penetrative structure.’ Behind him, Alex snorts.

Michael blinks at him with a blank face. He also never got the hang of expressing human emotion, the poor sod. There’s the slightest twinge in the back of his mind, an echo of what was once an all-encompassing connection. It fans his own rage, and his wings arch upwards in response.

“Try to take her from me,” Gabriel suggests, and the fight is on.

**ii.**

Their blades clash. Alex blinks the sweat out of her eyes. A strand of hair has made its way out of her ponytail and is plastered against her forehead, down her cheek, tickling her neck—

She is lying on the ground, Michael’s dagger at her throat.

“I win,” Michael murmurs, his body pinning her down, his coat heavy over her legs. Alex doesn’t reply, just digs her shoulders into the grass and lifts her head, feeling the cold bite of steel against her throat before Michael pulls his hand away and—

Drops his weapon, hand coming up to cradle her skull, and—

Fits his mouth over hers.

Alex opens for him immediately, eager, and Michael’s tongue thrusts in, all ruthless hunger and a sort of fragile tenderness; Michael is a being intimately aware of the vastness of his own power, the vulnerability of merely human flesh. Alex fists her hands in his shirt, pulling the neat tuck of it out from under his belt, and her skin on his prompts a low growl against her lips.

She pulls back laughing, and laughs more as he allows her to flip them. His eyes are dark, lips wet, hair mussed and strewn with blades of grass and she has to lean down and kiss him again, widen her knees and rock her hips up against his warmth.

“Alex.” She can feel the word vibrate in his chest. His fingers trace a line of ink beginning from under her left ear down her neck.

“Yeah,” she breathes as he hooks his fingers under her collar. If Michael wants to he can tear her shirt straight down the middle. “Please.”

There’s nobody in this field to see them, nobody to judge. When the angels came humanity was wiped out to make way for Heaven arrived on earth, and as they culled they searched for the Chosen One, the leader of the Host’s best-beloved foretold.

Alex fulfills her destiny gladly.

**iii.**

_“Ew,”_ Alex says, hunching her shoulders and sticking out her tongue.

“Don’t be so immature,” Queen Evelyn snaps. There’s no heat in her voice, which Alex concludes to mean that impregnation by Archangel isn’t high up the list of royal priorities either.

“But,” Alex says. She adopts her best posture and _why do we even need to discuss this, it’s obviously a terrible idea_ voice. “It’s _sex_. With a _male_. A male _Archangel_. And then nine months of, of puking and not being able to see my _feet. Peeing_ every thirty minutes.”

She pauses to let that sink in. Evelyn doesn’t look impressed, or even swayed.

“He’s a _prick!”_ Alex says, finally. “Okay? I’ve met him exactly once, and he was a gigantic—“

“Language,” Evelyn warns.

“—lump, I’m pretty sure he can’t simulate human emotion properly. Can he even—“

“Yes?”

Alex freezes.

“Um,” she says. “Nothing.”

Michael steps into view and inclines his head at her, the strange not-bow greeting of every allied angel.

“If you doubt that our… species,” he pauses as if dissatisfied with the word, “are incompatible, you should not. Your legends of the _nephilim_ are mostly incorrect, but they did describe the children of humans and angels.”

“Yeah, no” Alex says. “The part I’m having trouble with is the _pregnant_ thing. I don’t want to be pregnant. At all.”

“The queen has ordered that your line continue.” Michael cocks his head like a particularly infuriating crow. “I volunteered as a sign of respect, although she isn’t my superior. But she is yours.”

“So?” Alex glares.

Michael frowns, faintly. Figures that the one emotion he can convey is displeasure. “So you carry out your orders.”

“Yeah.” Alex draws the word out. _No_.

**iv.**

“We can run away,” Alex whispers into Claire’s hair. Her grip on the fancy gown is wrinkling it, mussing the sweet clean lines of the linen. “In New Delphi nobody will be able to tell us what to do, who to marry – we’ll be free. Come. Come with me.”

Claire hugs her tight. “I will, Alex, of course I will.”

Alex kisses her, has to kiss her, deep and ferocious and devouring; she feels like she’s going to burst out of her skin with hope, with exaltation. After a lifetime of serfdom, she’s finally going to be _free_.

And then, of course, it all goes to hell.

 

“Like what you see?” Alex practically snarls at Michael, stripped to her underwear in his eyrie. Michael is _staring_ , eyes tracing along her skin. She has to fight not to fold her arms across her chest. It’s better than some looks she receives on the street, but Michael is an archangel.

Honestly? It’s creepy as fuck.

“Hm,” Michael says noncommittally. 

Alex clenches her hands into fists, then forces herself to relax.

“Look at the tattoos, Alex. Can you read them?” Michael always stands a little too close, like he hasn’t quite worked out humans requirements for personal boundaries. 

“No.” Alex barely glances as her ink-covered arms. They’re _wrong_. Her skin should be pale and nearly unmarked; there’s a scar halfway down her forearm from a knife-training accident two years back, but that’s the only injury that left a permanent mark. The shifting blue lines etched onto her body make the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end, make her itch when she thinks about them. She wants to scrub them off. Let Michael have them if he wants them so much.

“Try, Alex.” Michael reaches out a hand as if to touch, and Alex flinches away before she can stop herself. His lips purse. “Sorry.”

“Whatever.” Alex looks down at her arms so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes, and this time the squiggles there somehow resolve themselves into words.

Or—just one word.

_Michael._

**v.**

It’s time. Alex stands on the edge of a cliff, the salt tang of sea spray heavy in the air. Michael is positioned behind her with his wings arched and ready.

“Remember,” he says. His voice is low, intimate – worried. “Faith is the key.”

She turns to look at him. Strands of blonde hair blow over her face; they feather over her smile, flirt with covering her eyes.

“Well?” Gabriel yells from the adjacent cliff. “Are you just going to stare at each other all day, or are we going to do this?”

Alex twitches a little. “Shut up!” she yells back.

“Alex,” Michael says. She turns to look at him: his dark eyes and furrowed brows, his full lower lip set in a frown. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“I want it,” Alex says. “I want _you_. I want to be with you, and Gabriel, and all your brothers and sisters. I want to see the Silver City.”

Michael closes his eyes. “All right,” he breathes, and draw his daggers. A glint of light from the other cliff tells Alex that Gabriel has done the same.

She unsheathes her own dagger, a gift from Michael. Her palm slices open neatly, the blood welling up dark and red.

“Faith,” Michael reminds her.

“Faith,” she echoes. Takes his bleeding hand in hers.

And there was light.


End file.
